Yo. So I'm just trying to write some fic, fam. Basically, Alice the new girl at Forks High. So this is about her life.

I'm not Stephanie Meyer. Thank the lord for that.

I was pinned to the wall by him.

My shirt was torn open, my eyes wet with tears, as he leaned in.

He caressed my cheek, smiling a smile, that, in any other situation, would have been kindly. Considering how familiar he was to me, it probably should be.

But I knew exactly what he was planning to do.

"Smile for the camera, Alice."

I jerked awake.

I leaned my head against the cool window on the bus, to calm myself.

Breathe in... Breathe out... Breathe in... Breathe out...

The bumping, rocking motion wasn't exactly pleasant, but apparently my cheapskate dad couldn't be bothered to buy a plane ticket, so here I was. I'd run out of things to do on a four-day long bus ride. I'd used every page in my sketchbook, I'd read every book that I'd brought in my bag (Which was a lovely purse as well, big bags were in style), and I'd listened to the entire contents of my ipod -twice- so it was out of battery. I could go back to sleep... But that would lead to the possibility of yet another disturbing dream. This one had been haunting me with more and more frequency.

Alright. Let me back-pedal, and explain. I was off to Forks, Washington, a little town that I hadn't visited since I was six, because I was going to live with my Aunt Mary. Aunt Mary was my Mom's sister, and I was her namesake. According to my father and step-mother, this made it okay to send me off to live with her, although it had been over a decade since I'd last seen her.

Admittedly, they weren't thinking properly, too overcome by grief to really consider much of anything...

But if I thought of that any more, I'd start crying again.

The bus reached a rest stop. I stood, grateful for a chance to stretch my legs and grab some breakfast. "The next stop's Port Angeles," the driver told me, as I walked by him.

"Thanks." I guess he recognized me, since we'd been together on this route for the past day, once I'd transferred onto this bus, the last leg of my journey.

I hurried into the cafe and bought a large coffee. Usually I was hyper enough without caffeine, but ever since I started having the nightmares, I tried to stay up as late as I could. And if I did sleep, I didn't do it well. I'd doze, not letting myself go enough to fall into the deep sleep required for my worst dreams. After the slip up earlier, I'd need to be even more vigilant.

I spent the remainder of my ride sipping my coffee and imagining what my aunt would be like.

I had few memories of my mother, she'd died when I was very young. My father had kept up intermittent communication with my aunt until he remarried, my stepmother had gotten aggravated that he stayed in touch with "that woman"'s family, and demanded he cease and desist.

I wondered if my Aunt would be like my mother.

In my memories, she was the caring one, the one who finger-painted with me, and didn't get upset when I wiped my hands on the cat. She'd moved through her days in a bright haze, cooking and cleaning with music playing, dancing instead of walking, and then run out into the yard to tend to her garden. She'd been content to keep house for her husband and child (In those few early memories, my father was much happier, more affectionate, more tender, making it easier to imagine my mother loving him), and she seemed genuinely pleased when she completed her tasks.

I wished I'd had a chance to ask her about that, why she, such a bright, energetic woman, had chosen to play house-keeper, instead of going into the world and making a name for herself.

I had two conflicting fears- one was that my Aunt would be similar to the dream version, so similar it made my heart ache for what I missed, and the other was that she would be cold and unkind, and make me question if I'd imagined the memories of my mother. But there was no point in worrying over what I couldn't change. I'd learned that much, at least, over the past year.

I pressed my hand on the seat in front of me as the bus wheels squealed to a stop, bracing myself.

I was one of three getting off at this stop. I'd brought a duffle bag of essentials, the rest of my clothes (The ones appropriate for Forks, anyways) were being shipped to Aunt Mary's house, along with the few belongings I'd felt any inclination to bring.

I scanned the faces of the people walking along the street, searching for someone even remotely familiar. Of course, no such luck.

"Mary-Alice?" Asked a soft voice from behind me. I turned to see a woman who stood at about 5'6", meaning little old me at 4'11" had to crane my neck to see her.

"Aunt Mary?"

"Hello dear." Her smile seemed sincere, although she didn't reach out to me. "The car's parked around the corner, can you handle your bags?"

I knew I seemed frail to a lot of people, tiny, barely hitting a hundred pounds. Add to that pale skin, dark hair, and blue eyes, and people assumed that I was a little china doll. But I was stronger than I looked.

"Yes, thank you."

She wasn't very talkative. I studied her on the walk to the car, and noticed that she had the same dark hair and blue eyes as me. Our faces were similar in shape as well, and our skin shared the same milky pallor.

Aside from the difference in height, she could be me in twenty years.

I dumped my bag in the trunk and settled in the car.

The ride was mostly silent. I was generally a talkative person, and she seemed as if she was used to things being quiet. I wondered exactly how we'd manage.

"There's the high school," She pointed out. "You'll start tomorrow, I've already enrolled you."

"Thank you, again, for taking me in."

She nodded, keeping her eyes on the road. I was grateful that she didn't mention why, exactly, she had to take me in.

The house was a small, two-story deal. There was a big oak tree in the front yard, its branches providing a screen in front of the upper windows. The house was white with dark green shutters, and a door to match. We entered the house, and I saw that throughout the living room, there were bookshelves full of Native American art. I looked at my aunt quizzically.

"What's all this?"

"This? It's what I do in Forks."

I still must have looked confused, because she clarified, "I moved to Forks so I could research the Quileute tribe for my book."

Oh, that was right. Aunt Mary was a historian. I nodded. The silence was a lot for me.

"Let me show you to your room."

She led me upstairs, to the room at the end of the hall. I had a bad feeling about the room, the interior of the house was painted with dark colors, with dark-wood furniture. The lamps added a warm glow to it, giving it a nice effect, but if I was going to be living in Forks, where the sun made an appearance so rarely, it would be nice to have a little light. But I was surprised to see that the room was painted sky blue, the bed was made up with a flowered quilt and about a half dozen throw pillows on top. There was a hanging light that gave off a white glow, the bookshelves in one corner were white, as was the vanity in the other. Gauzy white curtains covered the windows. I looked at my aunt in shock, it was lovely. She smiled at me. "You can decorate it as you like," was all she said. I dragged my bag in, and she showed me the bathroom. "I've got one in my room, so this one's all yours." It was nice, if a little small.

I followed her down the stairs into the kitchen. She opened the fridge and pulled out a pitcher of sweet tea. She poured herself a glass, and offered me one. I accepted, smiling a bit. Mississippi may not be part of the deep south, but although we were a bit farther west, we still held close the traditions. Always having a pitcher full of tea so sweet it could rot your teeth was just one of them. Of course, Aunt Mary would know that, she'd grown up there with Mom. I sipped it, and was surprised by a wave of homesickness. I hadn't expected to find anything like Biloxi in Forks.

"I usually keep odd hours, but if the door to my office is closed, I'd like to ask that you don't disturb me unless there's an emergency. It breaks my concentration." I nodded at that.

She stared at her glass, as if she was considering saying more, but then changed her mind. "I hope you like it here, Mary Alice."

"Alice," I corrected.

She looked at me, confused.

"I just... I prefer Alice." I mumbled, embarrassed. It probably wasn't polite to tell that to the person you were named after.

"I suppose that will make it less confusing," She said slowly. "But I've thought of you as Mary Alice for all these years, it may be difficult for me to remember. I'll try, though."

I nodded again.

"I was surprised when your father called me. I hadn't expected to hear any more from him after Nancy died."

I tensed at my mother's name. She stood and put a hand on my shoulder as she passed. "He told me about what happened. And I'm very sorry."

As she left the room, I bit my lip to try to curb the tears.

I spent the rest of the evening unpacking. A few of my boxes had already arrived, the rest, I was sure, were coming. I smiled as I put up my cork-board on the wall. Then I unpacked the pictures. They were labeled by year and, in some cases, by event. I began pinning them up. The first one was of my mother. Aside from sharing the dark hair, we didn't look much alike. She was tanner and fitter than skinny old me. It was of her in a hospital bed, holding a newborn Cynthia.

Cynthia. Seeing the picture broke my heart all over again. My baby sister, Cynthia. She'd elected to stay with Dad, seeing as she wasn't the one who he was constantly fighting with. She'd grown up to look nothing like me, with blonde, wavy hair and big brown eyes. But we were best friends, though I was three years older.

Oh, Cynthia. I missed her already. I wondered how she was holding up.

The next few were of us as children. My favorite was when I was five and she was two, the both of us standing in the surf of the ocean, shrieking as it lapped at our feet. The pictures proceeded through a parade of soccer and baseball photos, pictures from birthday parties, Christmases, Halloweens, and Easters. In the pictures, you could see that when I was about six, my mom stopped appearing. It was also when Melissa first showed up.

Melissa. I sighed. I may have been able to stay in Mississippi if it weren't for the fact that she hated me. My father didn't like me much, but Melissa really and truly hated me.

I looked at the last few pictures. Faces of friends I wasn't likely to see again crowded the images. I felt a bit bad, I'd tried to be as nice as I possibly could about the goodbyes, but after everything, I wanted them to leave me alone, and to be gone. And I may have been rude about it. But that was understandable, considering.

There was a whole other stack of photos to add... But those could wait. I couldn't look at them right now. I had been on a bus for four days, I needed a shower.

Twenty minutes later, I walked out of the bathroom in a towel, smelling like soap and my blueberry shampoo. I pulled on a blue tank-top and yoga pants, ready for dinner and an early night. But one of the photos had come loose from an old stack, and the smiling face of a blond two year old boy looked up at me. And I turned off the lights and burrowed into the heaps of pillows and blankets, trying desperately not to cry.

That night, I dreamt of a voice. No person, no place, just the voice. I couldn't make out what it said, but there was a comforting quality to it, that faded into the sound of the rain on my window as I woke up.

Reviews, por favor? I'm hopefully going to keep up with this one.